The Powerless Odds
by better-be-gryffindor
Summary: Happy 74th Annual Hunger Games! District 12's tributes are… Primrose Everdeen and Rory Hawthorne! Two twelve-year-olds, with their names there only once, to compete for District 12! Odds or manipulation? Gale and Katniss prepare to volunteer, when...
1. ONE

**Part I: "The Tributes"**

**One**

My mother is shaking me kindly to wake me up. "Prim, it's time," she says quietly, removing the hair off my face.

I take time to realize what I am doing, where I am. I feel my mother's body against mine, warm and protective, her gentle touch. In the middle of the night, I went to sleep beside her. Now I remember. This is the day of the reaping.

Immediately, I feel a chill down my spine. The fear I was feeling yesterday was nothing compared to what I am feeling now. I just turned twelve. That means that it is the first time my name is going to be in that glass ball. It is the first time that I am going to run the risk of going to the arena. To the Hunger Games.

Only by thinking about it I want to cry. But I won't. I wouldn't make Katniss see me crying.

Katniss! I look at her bed, wishing to see my beloved big sister, the one who can calm me down for sure, but the only thing that I find is the untidiness that she left behind. She must be hunting. Her boots are gone, and so is her forage backpack. She is _certainly_ hunting. With Gale.

Someone _meow_s beside me. Only then I acknowledge Buttercup's existence, who is sitting on my knees. He is my cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. The most beautiful cat I have ever seen. I named him Buttercup because of the flower. Katniss and I were named after flowers too.

I'm able to find strength to get up. My mother kisses my cheek. She doesn't try to tell me everything is going to be okay, because both of us know that is a lie, and I appreciate that. I am young but not stupid.

"It's time, sweetheart," Mom insists delicately.

"Coming," I say.

Before starting to get ready, I have to check something on the kitchen. I take a look at the table and smile. Katniss has gotten the gift I left for her: goat cheese, from my goat, Lady, wrapped in basil leaves.

I come back to the room and a tub of warm water waits me. I wash myself, get dried and find the clothes I am going to wear for the reaping on the bed I share with my sister. They are Katniss's first reaping outfit, when _she _was twelve, a skirt and a ruffled blouse. Mom has picked one of her own lovely dresses for Katniss to wear, a soft blue one.

I make myself dress the clothes. They are a bit large on me, but my mother promptly makes it stay with pins. She does my hair in two braids. After that, she prepares a tub for Katniss when she arrives covered with dirt from the woods and only then my mother dresses herself: a fine dress from her apothecary days.

When Katniss arrives, she enters the tub and scrubs off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even washes her hair. When she sees the dress Mom has laid out for her, she asks, "Are you sure?" Her voice is toneless.

I know that Katniss had to take care of the family when our father died in the accident in the mines. Our mother got so shaken up that she couldn't take care of us, so Katniss did all the work. Since then, she is angry at our mother. I can't blame any of them, though.

"Of course," says Mom. "Let's put your hair up, too." Katniss lets her towel-dry it and braid it up her head. I watch everything and look at her with admiration.

"You look beautiful," I tell her in a voice that is barely a hush.

"And nothing like myself," she says. But her voice is full of warmth, nothing like the way she had talked to Mom. She hugs me tight and I feel safer. I feel like I can go through the reaping. Now I'm not afraid of being reaped, I'm afraid of Katniss and her twenty name entries.

To those who are poor like we are, there is something to help, but it's a two-way path. You can opt to add your name into the pool more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. Katniss wouldn't let me take out any tesserae, so she has been entering her name more than necessary to feed our mouths since she was twelve. My chances of being reaped are slim compared to hers.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," she says, smoothing my blouse in the back.

I giggle and give her a small "Quack."

"Quack yourself," she says with a light laugh. I am the only one that make her do such thing as laugh. "Come on, let's eat." She plants a quick kiss on the top of my head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Lady and eat the rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square and it's like my legs are made of jelly. I love the square, because it has a holiday feel to it, but not on reaping days. Especially on _this _reaping day. Grimness is in the air.

The square is marked by ages in a decreasing way, those who are older closest to the stage than those who are younger. The ones who are available to compete in the Games are from twelve to eighteen years old. Family members are close by, full of tension, hoping not to hear one of their children's names.

I stand among a clump of twelve-year-olds from the Seam. They are as nervous as I am, because it is the first time they are on the reaping. I can see it in their eyes… They, like me, are just scared little kids. We are not ready to fight to the death. No one is.

I take a look on the crowd, starting to get scared. He told me he was going to be close by. After a moment of desperation, I see Rory Hawthorne, Gale's younger brother. I sigh with relief. Rory is the same age as me. Our friendship isn't as deep and Gale and Katniss's are, but we consequently know each other well. We exchange looks and he nods, though even I can see fear in those fierce eyes so like his brother's. Rory may transmit confidence, but today everyone is afraid, even him.

We all focus the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting. And one of them contains the name Primrose Everdeen.

There are three chairs on the stage. One is for Mayor Undersee, a tall and balding man. The other is for Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. The last chair remains empty. The mayor and Effie whisper to each other.

The town clock strikes two. Now it's time. My heart races as the mayor steps forward to the podium and begin to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

They force kids to fight to the death to remind us that we must not rebel. They won't have mercy if we do. We don't want to kill. But that's the way it is: kill or be killed.

The Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as something to celebrate, a festivity. That is the most torturous part. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. We can't even call it a list, though. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

In order to distract people from Haymitch, the mayor introduces Effie Trinket. She steps into the podium and gives her signature bubbly, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

_I hope the odds are indeed in my favor, Effie_, I think.

She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors. But we, of course, have to pretend we are convinced that she's delighted to be at District 12, where you can starve to death in safety.

It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. My entire body is trembling. Effie reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and now I'm not thinking about how I wish it's not me. That gets in second plan. I find myself so desperately hoping that it's not Katniss, that it's not Katniss, that it's not Katniss. The odds are not on her favor. _Please_, I think, almost crying, _don't take Katniss away from me. Please…_

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not Katniss.

It's me.


	2. TWO

**Two**

The impact of these words knocks every wisp of air from my lungs. All the blood is drained from my face and I feel my hands clenching in fists involuntarily at my sides. Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen. Because it's not fair. Not at all.

One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in my favor. Katniss, on the other hand, had not had the odds in her favor. Even so, I am the one who walks with stiff, small steps toward the stage.

I pass by the crowd where Katniss is, but I don't have the courage to look at her. If I do, I'm not going to make it. I'm going to fall on my knees and cry like a baby. I don't want to do that in front of her.

I'm about to climb the steps when I hear a strangle cry. "Prim!" And I know the voice belongs to Katniss, so I freeze. _No_, I think, realizing what she's going to do. _No, I won't let her do it._ "Prim!" She doesn't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately. She reaches me and grabs me, leaving me with the sensation that she'll never let me go. And that's what worries me.

"Young lady," Effie Trinket says with a strident voice. I think she's torn between annoyance for messing up with her show and excitement. That is the only district with some action going on, after all.

"Katniss," I whisper, trying to control myself. "Katniss, don't you dare."

I look at her face. I know she's about to say the words. The two words that are going to take her away from me, probably forever. I can't let this happen. She has suffered so much because of me. It's time to return the favor.

"Katniss," I say seriously, "if you do this, I promise that I'll hate you for the rest of my life!"

Every word hurts. But I have to say them if I want to keep my sister alive. I wouldn't ever say these things to her if I didn't need to. I could never hate Katniss. And I know she wouldn't bear it if I did.

I can see that I have made an effect on her. She lets go of me. Her face is so heartbroken I feel bad. _I am doing this for you, sis_, I think.

But when I feel that everything is going to be fine, when I think Katniss is safe, she blurts out, "I volunteer!" And pushed me behind her. "I volunteer as tribute!"

My world crashes down. The shock stops me from doing anything. I'm suddenly angry at Katniss. It's not proper for the moment, but the only thing I can feel is anger. I was supposed to reward her! I wanted to do her a favor! She's been taking care of me for so long! And now, when I have the chance, she messes everything up!

There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy's name has been read, or girl, if a girl's name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where the word _tribute _is pretty much synonymous with the word _corpse, _volunteers are all but extinct.

Katniss is now a volunteer. Therefore, she is now a corpse.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um . . ." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at Katniss with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know us really, but there's a faint recognition there. She is the girl who five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that? "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

When I hear these words, I come to myself. I start to scream hysterically. I grab hold of Katniss, just like she had done to me, and refuse to let go. My skinny arms are not enough to hold her hunter body for long, and I know it. _I begged not to take Katniss away from me! I begged so hard! _"No! Katniss, no, you can't go!"

"Prim, let go," she says harshly. She has never been so harsh to me. Is that it? Now _she _hates me? She hates me for being reaped of for having to save me? "Let go!"

"No." This time, I'm not hysterical. I'm determined to pay Katniss back. For everything she has done for me. I will not allow Katniss to fight until death because of me. "I veto!" I yell. I yell as loud as it's possible. "I veto her volunteering!" I am now thinking of every synonym for the word I have ever learned, to emphasize, to show them I'm not kidding. But who's going to take a twelve-year-old girl seriously? "I veto, I forbid, I prohibit, I disallow!"

I don't even know if that is allowed. They may think that I'm defying the system. But that's not my intention at all. All I know is that I won't watch my sister's death on TV. I don't think about anything else.

Everyone is confused. So am I, to be honest. No one knows how to react, not even Katniss. The entire population of District 12 stares at me.

Effie Trinket is the first to regain her composure. "Now that's different!" she says brightly. "I'm not sure if there's a rule about this kind of situation… I think it is the first time that this happens!"

"No!" Katniss is back to herself. "No, that's not possible! I volunteered! I'm going to compete now!"

"I don't want anyone to volunteer!" I scream. "I want to compete! Certainly, I have the right to do that! I don't want her to volunteer to take my place!"

I can feel the eyes on me, wide as the berries Katniss finds in the woods. They can't believe I'm doing this. They don't understand. I'm always so peaceful, so passive. I don't do things like these.

I risk looking at Katniss. And I see that she, too, doesn't understand. I want to scream and cry. If even she doesn't get it, then who will?

Suddenly, Haymitch steps forward. He sways back and forward. "Give the little one a chance!" he bellows groggily. "She has got spunk!" He looks triumphant at the pronunciation of such difficult word. Then he looks directly at the camera and points. "She has got more spunk than you!" And then he knocks himself unconscious.

I have the sensation that I'm not the only one defying the Capitol today.

"Um…" Effie Trinket says, trying to bring the attention back to her and away from Haymitch. "I think we shall save this for later! Maybe we should go for the boys."

Katniss and I are partially forgotten when the tension restarts. Effie crosses to the ball that contains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium and reads the name. "Rory Hawthorne!"

My blood goes ice cold. _That can't be happening, _I think. _No, no, no, no! From all people, why him? _The odds are not in my favor today. My entire body trembles as I concentrate on not crying.

_Everyone thinks I'm weak, _I think. _Everyone loves me, but I know they think I'm a weakling. Even Hazelle, Gale, Rory and Vick. Even Mom. Even Katniss. I will not prove them right. I won't cry._

How is it possible? Rory also has his name entered only once. He's twelve. Were these the odds, the powerless odds, in action? Or is it possible that someone has been manipulating District 12's reaping?

I watch Rory as he walks toward the stage with big steps. His face is firm and concentrated, his grey eyes are grim and I have never thought about how much he looks like Gale as I do now.

"Rory! No!" I have no doubts that it's Gale's voice. I expect nothing less of him. Just like Katniss, he does everything for his family. And he's willing to do this one thing: save Rory's life by volunteering.

Gale doesn't have much difficulty in crossing the crowd, since the eighteen-year-olds are the closest to the stage. He embraces Rory just like Katniss did to me.

"I also volunteer!" he says, his strong voice filling the square. Everyone is shocked. Another volunteer? In the same reaping? That is so improbable, so impossible. In District 12, people simply _don't _volunteer.

"No!" Rory screams in fury, pushing Gale. One look at his eyes and I know that everything that went through my head when Katniss volunteered are now going through _his _head. He takes a shaky breath and shouts, "I veto!"

That causes more surprise yet. Everyone is whispering. Effie Trinket's face is close to pure desperation. Rory followed my lead. I don't know how these Capitol people are going to react now.

"You can't just ignore our requests!" I make myself say. Everyone looks at me. "There's no rule that specifies we can't veto!"

Rory joins me, to my relief. "Prim is right! If we want to compete, let us compete!"

"No!" Katniss screams. "We volunteered! When someone volunteers, you have to let the person compete! They're just kids, _please_!"

"Since we volunteered, the previous tributes have no right to compete!" Gale echoes.

Now everyone is screaming their opinions. Should they allow Rory and I or Gale and Katniss to compete? Or neither? Should they redo the reaping?

Effie clearly doesn't know what to do. Neither does Mayor Undersee, who is petrified on the stage. It's as if he can't understand why we all _want _to be on the Games.

Katniss grabs my shoulders and shakes me. "I haven't done everything to protect you just to lose you for the Games, Prim!" she shouts.

"Exactly!" I push her away. "You're always saving me, Katniss! I want to save you now, just for a change!"

She stares at me, incredulous. But before she can think of anything to say, we're interrupted by someone that grabs the microphone.

"Well!" Effie Trinket shouts to be heard. "I have to contact the Capitol about this…"

No one seems to be listening, though I observe her as she snaps a high-tech cell phone and speaks quickly and anxiously. A few moments later she is back at the microphone and says dramatically, "Let's see what these twelve-year-olds are capable of! It was decided by President Snow and Seneca Crane, The Head Gamemaker, that our tributes are Primrose Everdeen and Rory Hawthorne!"

I don't know if I should feel triumphant or miserable. Have I just fought with my sister and won my death on TV? Yes, it sounds stupid, but that's what I just did. _No, I'm doing this for Katniss. It's all for Katniss_.

Now it is her turn to scream hysterically. Gale's face has gone pale. He finds Katniss and embraces her. Neither of them looks at the stage while Rory and I climb up the steps.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket exclaims above Katniss's screams. Effie is the only one who seems to find that 'exciting'. "After all this fuss, I present you District 12's tributes, Primrose Everdeen and Rory Hawthorne! Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our tributes!" trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Mine and Rory's words were effective, but the most deadly weapon for people is silence, and they know it. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

A shift has occurred since I stepped up to stop Katniss from volunteering, and now it seems I have become someone precious. Katniss is the bold one, not me, but now it seems that I have become important. I, the peaceful healer from the Seam. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love. It's not only destined to me, but to Rory as well, who is also a fighter. Even more than I am.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Rory and I to shake hands. His are rough and dry. Rory looks me right in the eye and gives me a reassuring squeeze. This gesture calms me down more than I thought it would.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.

Now that I know that Katniss is safe, another thought of desperation invades me. My face remains expressionless, but my heart is racing and my mind is working hard.

Only one is going to leave the arena. Which means that one of us is going to die. Or both of us.

_Maybe I won't have to kill him myself, _I think. _There are twenty-four of us. Someone may kill him before I do._

But then I think furiously, again fighting against tears, _I don't want to kill him! I don't want to kill anyone! Especially Rory!_

The odds… they are my last hope. But they, of course, have not been very dependable of late.


	3. THREE

**Three**

The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. Not with handcuffs, obviously, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building. Was it possible that tributes have tried to escape in the past? That's not very difficult to imagine.

Once inside, I can barely look at Rory when I'm conducted to a room and left alone. It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. I sit on the couch, apprehensive about what I'm about to face. Not the games, but the good-bye hour. The time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. And I'm determined not to cry. Not because of the cameras, though. It's partly because of myself, and partly for the sake of my family. As much as I want to prove that I'm not weak, my family is more important. After all I did to stop Katniss from being on the Games, it would be very contradictory to make her and Mom see me suffering.

My sister and my mother are the first to come. Katniss runs and embraces me desperately, as if I can turn into a pile of ashes any minute. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. And we stay there in silence. There's no need to say anything.

Katniss eventually lets go of me. She looks right into my eyes. I know what's coming. She isn't teary, but I know that she is fighting very hard not to cry.

"Why, Prim?" she asks. She doesn't have anything to add, but I know exactly what she's talking about. She feels like I have thrown away all these years in which she has protected me. She doesn't want to say it, but she thinks I will not last long in the arena. Forests terrify me and I can't see anyone being murdered without thinking that I might be able to heal them. In other words, just like I had thought, she indeed thinks I'm a weakling.

"I cannot be your little sister forever, Katniss," I tell her, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "I'm thankful for everything you've done for me. But I have to stand up for myself someday. Plus, I've never done anything for you."

"Being alive is the most precious gift you can ever give me," Katniss tells me, now really struggling to stay strong. For me. She doesn't ever stop doing things for me. "And you decide to stand up for yourself _now_? In the _reaping_?"

I look at her. "You don't think I'll come back," I say. It's not a question, it's a sentence. She doesn't even try to deny it. "You're the hunter and I'm the healer. You're the bold and I'm the timid. I agree. But you've seen me today. Do I still look like that scared little girl?" Katniss doesn't say anything, so I go on. "And I've decided to stand up for myself in the reaping, yes. I couldn't bear having to watch you in the Games."

"And now you've made us all watch your death on live television," she tells me.

I stand up quickly, leaving my mother and Katniss surprised. "You know what? I am going to come back from these Games. I am going to win. Just to show you that I'm not weak. I am an Everdeen after all!"

I know that I can't win. The competition is insane. My opponents include: kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who've been trained their whole lives for this; kids that know a hundred ways to kill a person; and kids that are in the majority – if not _all_ of them – much older than me. Plus, I'm not brave, or fast, or strong, or sly… There's nothing I actually _can _do, except for healing. But that won't help me at all. It's possible that I die on the first day. But I pretend that I am convinced that I have a chance.

Mom and Katniss stare at me. Then a smile forms on my mom's lips. "You look so much like your sister."

I can't help but blush. That is the best compliment I could ever receive. I hope that they have realized that I can also be rebellious, just like Katniss.

"But," Katniss says, "Rory…" Her voice trails off.

Whenever I think of Rory and me in the arena, having to compete against each other, I feel like giving up. But maybe, just maybe, if we can make an alliance during the Games… must we be able to overcome the system just like we did today?

"I can't worry about Rory now," I say firmly. And then I make a sudden decision. "But tell the Hawthornes that I swear not to kill him. Under any circumstances. Tell them that?"

I hadn't considered that before, but now I'm certain. I will not kill Rory. I swear it in my heart. If he is to die, he won't be killed by my hands. _Whatever _happens.

They both nod. I look directly into their eyes. They are the two people I love most in the world. They love me so much. But they – Katniss, at least – don't love each other as much. I won't be there to be the link between them anymore.

"Listen," I say. "I don't care about what happened in the past. It's over. You two have to overcome your pride. You are mother and daughter, and you love each other, even though you don't like to admit it. I won't be there anymore to keep you at peace. Dad wouldn't like to see you like this." I can see both jaws clenching, but I don't stop. "Promise me that, while I'm away, you will try to live peacefully. That you will try every day. Don't give up on each other. You will try, won't you? Really, really try? For me?"

They both grab my hands. Mom says, "Of course, Prim."

I look at Katniss. She doesn't seem willing to do that, but she says, "Really, really try. I swear it. For you, Prim."

A wave of relief invades my body. I can't afford losing them. And, if I die, maybe they will be forced to get closer to one another. Maybe that's going to make my death worth it.

Katniss hands me a delicate necklace. The pendant is flower that I know well: a primrose. You can find this kind of thing in the merchant area, but they are all so expensive. I wonder what Katniss had to sell to buy me this. I put it on immediately and smile. "Thank you."

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I hope with all my heart that they listen to what I told them. That, while I'm away, they are able to get together again.

Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I see it's the baker, Peeta Mellark's father. I get surprised, but we do know each other a bit. When I sell my goat cheeses at the Hob, I put two of them aside for him and he gives me a generous amount of bread in return. He's so much nicer than his wife. Katniss calls her a witch, and she once told me that she hits Peeta. I'm sure the baker would never do such thing.

The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He's a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from years at the ovens. He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury we can never afford.

"Thank you," I say, beaming.

The baker's not a very talkative man in the best of times, so I'm caught off guard when he says, "I hope you, um... come back. To keep selling me your goat cheese."

I smile widely at him and he involuntarily smiles back. I appreciate that comment very much.

"How's Peeta?" I ask him. I really like Peeta Mellark. He's sweet, and he helped my family when we were in a desperate situation. The boy with the bread.

"Fine, fine," the baker answers. "He got pretty upset when you were called."

I smile awkwardly. I often underestimate the feelings people from District 12 have toward me. Actually, I'm rather clueless. So I'm always caught off guard.

"Tell him I say good-bye, then," I say.

He grunts, but I'm pretty sure it's a yes.

The baker is a very awkward man, but when the Peacekeeper summons him, I give him the warmest good-bye as possible. When he's leaving, I can see that he's smiling.

My next guest is _much_unexpected. Gale walks straight toward me. He probably has just visited Rory. I wasn't expecting him, because I'm afraid he might be angry at me. Plus, I'm competing against his younger brother. But his face isn't mad or anything. He sits beside me.

"Katniss told me that you swore you wouldn't kill Rory," he says.

I stare at the ground. Does he finds me stupid or is he grateful? "I wouldn't be able to do it. Our families are so deeply close. I wouldn't kill Rory, not even if that was my last chance to survive."

"Hey," he says, and I look at him. "It's a game. I would love if Rory came alive, but that would mean losing you. It's all so difficult, Prim, very difficult."

I hesitate. "Are you mad at us? Because we didn't allow you and Katniss to volunteer?"

"You two have more guts than I have thought," he says. "I don't know if I'm frustrated or proud."

"But, if you two volunteered, you'd have to compete against Katniss," I observe. If competing against Rory is difficult for me, then it would be impossible for Gale.

"I know," Gale says. But he quickly changes subject. "I came here to tell you that you have some of Katniss's characteristics." I'm already shaking my head, so he insists, "You do. You just have to find them and the arena is yours."

As soon as he says those words, I throw myself into his arms. He hugs me back. I don't have a very close relationship with Gale really. But he's so close to Katniss that he consequently cares about me and I care about him.

The Peacekeepers are back. Gale lets go of me and they drag him. I say, "You and Katniss support each other, okay?"

"We will!" he says. "Good luck, Prim!" And the Peacekeepers slam the door.

It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.

The station is swarming with reporters with their insect-like cameras trained directly on my and Rory's faces. We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up our images, but it all gets easier with him by my side. Then we're allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.

In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known is Appalachia. Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here. Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.

Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and math most of our instruction is coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem. It's mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. Yeah, we sure do.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don't have hot water at home, unless we boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I peel off Katniss's old reaping outfit and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before, much less hot. The sensation is amazing. I choose a pretty yellow dress that reminds me that, despite the darkness that lies ahead, I'll be able to light it up.

This thought reminds me of a mockingjay. They're funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for them was _muttations,_or sometimes _mutts_for short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered words, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people a while to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

Only they didn't die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high-pitched warble to a man's deep tones. And they could re-create songs. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. Whenever he sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and filled with life.

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Rory sits waiting for us. He also has taken a shower and is now using bright clothes. The chair next to him is empty.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Rory.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie Trinket. I think she's relieved by Haymitch's absence.

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come. But I'm stuffing myself in the politest way possible, because I've never had food like this, so good and so much.

"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie as we're finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

The pair last year was two kids from the Seam who'd never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Hazelle and my mother have taught Rory and me how to use a fork and a knife, but not everyone even _has _cutlery. I'm struggling not to get angry at Effie Trinket's comment, and I can see that Rory is doing the very same.

Now that the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep the food down. I can see Rory's looking a little green, too. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. I memorize all our competition. A rich and snob pair from District 1. A monstrous volunteer boy and a scary girl from District 2. A terrified pair from District 3. Two well-built fishers from District 4. A simple boy and a fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District 5. Fairly OK pairs from District 6 to 9. A wide-eyed girl and a boy with a crippled foot from District 10. And a boy as monstrous as the one from District 2, but not with the lethal look in his eyes, and a twelve-year-old girl from District 11. She has dark brown skin and eyes. Contrary to what happened in our district, there's no willing to volunteer for her.

I don't remember any Hunger Games edition that had so many twelve-year-olds at once. Three of them! Me, Rory and the girl from District 11. I bet the other contestants are enjoying this very much. We're probably dead already. They don't have much to worry about.

Last of all, they show District 12. This is, by far, the most interesting reaping. My name being called, Katniss volunteering and I vetoing. The awkward moment of confusion. Haymitch falling. Then everything repeats itself when Rory's name is called. Gale volunteers and Rory vetoes. Effie getting the phone and then announcing that the Capitol decided to allow me and Rory to compete. Katniss is then screaming hysterically and Gale is looking transparent of fear. Rory and I mount the stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. The silent salute. Rory and I shake hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the program ends.

Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

Rory unexpectedly laughs. "He was drunk," says Rory. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Effie Trinket makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.

"Yes," hisses Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.

"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.

**A/N: So, hi! I changed the mockingjay pin for a primrose necklace as a symbol of rebellion. It may seem silly, but I wanted to show that the unexpected can happen. A little girl can suddenly rebel. That's why I chose the primrose. What do you think?**


	4. FOUR

**Four**

The vision of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach is rather comical, but it's mostly pathetic and kind of sad. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. Rory and I exchange a glance. My healer instincts speak louder, so I take one of Haymitch's arms. Rory, to my relief, takes the other one and we both help him to his feet.

"I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.

"Let's go back to your room, shall we?" I ask him. "There you can clean up a bit. How about that?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. Rory and I make an effort to carry him back to his compartment. Poor Rory does it all by himself, because I'm not as strong as he is. We haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.

"I take it from here." I tell Rory. I'm not strange to naked bodies. After all, when you work as a healer, you see pretty nasty things. Stripping down Haymitch, washing the vomit out of his chest hair, and tucking him into bed aren't much of a challenge to me. Plus, I don't want to leave him with the Capitol people.

But Rory shakes his head. "No, no, I do it. It won't be a pretty sight."

Rory can be very headstrong when he likes, so I don't try to change his mind. I know I won't be able to. "Together, then," I suggest. He doesn't say otherwise.

He and I clean Haymitch up. The sour smell of vomit is gone and we put Haymitch on his bed. He's immediately snoring.

The train stops. Rory and I say goodbye vaguely and enter our compartments. I'm curious to see why the train stopped, so take a look through the window. We're pausing at a platform to refuel. By the track, I see a patch of dandelions.

This reminds me of years ago. When I was seven, Katniss came home and grabbed my hand and a bucket and headed to the Meadow. It was dotted with the golden-headed weeds. Dandelions. After we'd harvested those, we scrounged along inside the fence for probably a mile until we'd filled the bucket with the dandelion greens, stems, and flowers. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad and the rest of the bakery bread.

"What else?" I'd asked Katniss. "What other food can we find?"

"All kinds of things," she promised me. "I just have to remember them."

My mother had a book she'd brought with her from the apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment and covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten blocks told their names, where to gather them, when they came in bloom, their medical uses. But my father added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines. Katniss and I spent the rest of the night poring over those pages.

The next day, Katniss was off to hunt. It was the first time she did that without my dad. But she came back home with a dead rabbit. We hadn't had meat in months. The sight of the rabbit seemed to stir something in my mother. She roused herself, skinned the carcass, and made a stew with the meat and some more greens I had gathered. Then she acted confused and went back to bed, but when the stew was done, we made her eat a bowl.

The woods became our savior. Katniss was determined to feed us. She stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath her feet. She kept us alive.

On May 8th, when Katniss turned twelve, she signed up for tesserae. She began to trade things at the Hob.

Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food Katniss brought in for winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies. One day, I heard her singing.

I was thrilled to have her back, but Katniss never trusted her again. I'm sure that a part of her even hated our mother. I forgave Mom, but Katniss had taken a step back from her and nothing was ever the same between them again.

I can only hope that those two will set things right. It's my biggest wish.

The train begins to move again, so I have to close the window. I imagine my home. What are my mother and Katniss doing now? Are they sitting together at our living room, watching the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Or are they at opposite places of the house, only to face each other when it's completely necessary?

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This day has been endless. Today's morning seems to have happened a lifetime ago.

I don't even bother in changing my clothes. I climb into bed, still wearing the yellow dress. The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. I don't even have time to feel sad; I'm already sleeping.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when I wake up. My heart is racing, but I don't know why. Maybe I had a nightmare. I hear Effie Trinket's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

I don't want to put another outfit on, so I remain with the yellow dress. I hold onto my primrose pendant and it gives me strength.

I slept in the two braids my mother did for the reaping and I just leave it up. We can't be far from the Capitol now. I don't know what to think about this.

As I enter the dining car, I see a very odd scene. Effie is muttering obscenities under her breath while Haymitch, with his face puffy and red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. Rory just sits there, staring at his breakfast.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice.

I eat as quickly and politely as I can, and I finish off my meal while everyone is still eating, so I analyze their eating habits. Not to judge them, but to have something to do. Effie eats like a dame, with her legs crossed and impeccable manners. Rory eats like he'll never see food again, which is relevant because our families hardly ever have something to eat, unless Gale and Katniss bring food home. I'm not bothered by Rory's manners at all. On the contrary; it makes me like him even more. As for Haymitch, well… he's already drinking. Maybe he's entirely hopeless, because Rory and I don't stand a chance. I can't blame him.

"So, mentor," I say, "do you have some advice to give us?"

Haymitch puts down his glass, filled with an alcoholic drink. "Look, we all know that twelve-year-olds never win Games. So accept your fate and I accept mine."

I sigh, but I don't complain. I was waiting for this kind of attitude when I saw him at the reaping. The only thing I can think of is what he may have seen in the Games he participated (and won) that made him use alcohol as a painkiller.

"So you won't even try to help us because we're already dead?" Rory asks angrily.

Haymitch looks at him, studying his face. Maybe he thinks that Rory has a slim chance to survive at least the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, because he says, "All right, all right, I owe you a try. Be it, then." He sighs. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But–" Rory begins.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. And he leaves the car. Just like that. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. Both Rory and I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. We watch the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces with artificial colors.

We stop at the station. And I realize that more than one of these artificial people may be part of my prep team. With this grim thought, I follow Rory out of the train and step into the grounds of the Capitol.


	5. Five

**Five**

The Remake Center. Or should I call it 'The Torture Center'? Because staying here for three hours feeling pain is my general idea of torture.

Note: hair-removing is the most excruciating pain in the world. Pinky promise. Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, is yanking strips of Fabric from my legs to tear out the hair beneath it. And it hurts. A lot.

Venia is very talkative, but I don't pay much attention on what she's talking about. I take time to hear her Capitol accent. It's very weird. People here speak in such a high pitch, like they're always asking a question. Their vowels are odd, their words are clipped and there's a hiss on the letter _s_. Venia, for instance, barely opens her jaw when she's talking, which is funny.

During these three hours, my prep team has been busy. They've scrubbed down my body with a gritty loam to remove dirt, turned my nails into uniform shapes, and stripped the hair off my legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows. My skin feels sore and tingling. The only thing I'm wearing is a thin robe. I don't complain, though. Not only because Haymitch told me so, but because Flavius, Venia and Octavia have been considerably kind. I was expecting less from people from the Capitol, to be honest.

"We're impressed with you," says Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "We were expecting a whiner, and we hate whiners."

_Great_, I think, _even these people that don't even know me think I'm weak._

Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, remove the very last bits of hair with the help of Venia and Flavius. By the time they finish, I'm as hair free as a newborn baby.

They admire their work delightedly. Octavia sighs happily, "She's is so lovely!"

"As delicate as a primrose," says Flavius. I don't know why, but I like the sound of that. "Except for all the hair and dirt, I mean," he adds.

"Cinna won't have _any _problems with this sweetling!" Venia says. "Let's call him!"

They dart out of the room. I sincerely don't know what to think about my prep team. I mean, they're from the Capitol, yes, and people here are the only ones who treat the Games as a festivity, but I do feel that they're trying to help me.

I wait for my stylist anxiously, lying on a table that makes me feel that I'm about to do a surgery. How this Cinna will be like? Probably like most of the stylists they interview on television – dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered – and that worries me. What is his idea of fashion? Most likely the creepy skin tones and bright hair colors they all use here. I imagine myself with pink hair and yellow skin and that makes me want to leave this place running.

Before I can move, however, the door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. His close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand.

"Hello, Primrose. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says. The Capitol's odd accent isn't very perceptible in his voice.

"Prim," I whisper automatically. He raises his eyebrows, but not in a rude way, only curious. I clear my throat. "Nobody calls me that. I'm only Prim."

"Prim," Cinna repeats as if he is enjoying the sound of the word. "Okay, Prim. Just give me a moment, all right?" He walks around me, taking in every inch of my body with his eyes. That makes me feel embarrassed, but Cinna looks professional. "Who did your hair?" he asks.

My hands fly automatically to clutch on my two golden braids. "My mother," I say.

"It's beautiful. And in perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says.

The way he talks and the way he looks don't match with the behavior of the other people I've seen here in the Capitol. That makes me ask, "Are you new?" Most of the stylists are familiar, being there year after year after year. Some have been around my whole life.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna. "I was willing to work with District Twelve."

"Were you?" I ask, sincerely surprised. We're the last desirable district, no doubt.

"Yes." With no further explanation, he says, "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

"Wow," I say before I can stop myself. I'm impressed. Not in a positive way, but in a negative one. Back home, I wouldn't even _dare_ to dream about eating any of these kinds of food. The idea of living in a world where food appears at the press of a button is so unrealistic, so out of reach. How come people from the same nation can be in such different situations? While people here have so much food they don't know what to do with it, the citizens of the poorest districts struggle to have a single plate a day.

I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says.

I blush. "No, no," I lie, feeling so ashamed. "That's not–"

"No matter," says Cinna. "So, Prim, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Rory. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."

For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. Tributes from District 12 usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps, which are always irrelevant according to the Capitol people.

"You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna.

I get a little apprehensive by that. What does he mean by 'unforgettable'?

"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. "And what do we do with coal?" He looks at me, waiting for an answer.

"We burn it?" I ask, unsure.

"We burn it," confirms Cinna.

A few hours later, I try my outfit on. It's a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. There's also a fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and a matching headpiece. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.

_As delicate as a primrose_, I think. Delicate primroses shouldn't be set on fire.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he guarantees.

To my relief, he doesn't use much makeup on my face, just a little bit of highlighting on strategic places. Cinna brushes down my hair and redoes my two braids. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," he says dreamily.

"As delicate as a primrose," I say. I don't realize I have said this aloud, until I see Cinna smiling at me.

"The delicacy of a primrose and the strength of a katniss," he says. "The perfect combination." I can't help smiling too.

I'm relieved when Rory shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He smiles at me as his stylist, Portia, and his team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna, I notice. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.

We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.

I'm a little nervous about the fire. I whisper to Rory, "Do you think it's really synthetic?"

He laughs a bit. "With all this eccentricities in this place, I wouldn't be surprised if there were real flames." But then he sees my expression. "Don't worry," he reassures, "they wouldn't burn us to death. We still have to compete in the Games, right?"

"Right," I say with a sigh. "I wonder where Haymitch is. Isn't he supposed to be here for, uh, support?"

Rory shrugs. "It must be dangerous, though. He has so much alcohol in him. It's risky to let him be so close to our flames."

We both laugh. It's the first time I laugh sincerely since the couple of days before the reaping. The sensation is so good. It's like I'm back to the Seam with Rory. But then I remember that we won't go back to District 12 together. After the Games, either only one comes back or none.

The opening music begins. Massive doors slide open revealing the streets lined with a massive crowd. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, where we're going to stay until the Games begin.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites.

District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I close my eyes shut, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Cinna jumps off the chariot. Involuntarily, I clutch at Rory's hand. I feel the heat go up my cheeks, but it has nothing to do with the fake flames. Embarrassed, I prepare to let go, but Rory says, "No. Hold it." I look at him. With those fake flames, he looks eye-popping. I don't have strength to let go of his hand, so I'm actually relieved that he wants to hold mine too.

We enter the city. The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts. Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.

_Heads high_, I tell myself. _Smiles. Just like Cinna told you. _Rory's hand gives me the balance I need to carry on. I lift my chin a bit higher, give them my most natural beam, which is not very hard, and wave with my free hand. At home, I don't have a hard time on captivating people. With the Capitol people is not different. They're going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names.

I want to come back and give Cinna a hug. He's made Rory and me unforgettable. Even if I die during the bloodbath on the first day – which will possibly happen –, people won't forget about me. They will remember Primrose Everdeen. The girl who was as delicate as a primrose and as strong as a katniss. The flaming flower.

Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. This makes me a little astonished for a moment, but recover myself and keep sending kisses.

"Prim! Prim!" My name is being shouted from every direction. They are treating me like a celebrity.

We enter the City Circle. Rory and I are holding each other's hands so tightly it hurts, but none of us want to let go. Ever. We don't speak, but we know. So we keep holding on.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. Rory and I have more airtime than the other tributes, I notice. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Oh, well, maybe now they give the twelve-year-olds from District 12 some credit. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

I'm still glued to Rory when we get out of the chariot. I don't mind, but I force myself to let go. After all this time, my hand got sweaty and stiff. Rory and I both massage our hands.

"Well, that was a nice show," Rory says. "They've seen the circus on fire. Literally."

I laugh. "Thanks for keeping hold of me," I tell him. The fake fire is gone, and yet I can still feel the heat.

"I needed your hold too," he says, giving me a half-smile.

And again I see myself thinking of how much I don't wanna compete against him. It's so unfair. Rory and I have known each other for what I consider a lifetime.

_The arena is not the only thing I have to worry about, _I think as we head toward the Training Center._ The Hunger Games have already begun._


End file.
